Avalon
by SnowyRefuge
Summary: The picture of beauty. His own Avalon, in a way, and something that he would never be able to hold any closer than this, for she would defy him until the very bitter end. He supposed that there were simply some things in this world that you could never have. And maybe, just maybe, that's what made them so beautiful.


**My personal character analysis (of sorts) of Gilgamesh. Mainly because I wanted to write about him and Arturia. And, as much as I love the guy, you gotta admit that he's at least a **_**little**_** insane. But I guess that's _why_ I love him so much.**

**Avalon**

**By: SnowyRefuge**

**Disclaimer: The Fate series isn't mine, and the cover is by tama-lynn on DeviantArt.**

Many would call him sick and twisted, or would even go to the extent of calling him evil.

He, himself, had never thought such foolishness before, but it didn't go to say that he was unaware that others did- he wasn't _stupid_, after all. He had humiliated many and killed msny more, but only in the name of pride.

Was everything not his possession? Was every treasure, anything there ever was of worth, not his, an _only_ his, for the taking? The world was simply his resting place, one where he was expected to be entertained from for as long a time as possible, as it was _all_- the finest of wines, the strongest of weapons, the most delicate of silk, and most beautiful of women- all of it, his.

And yet. Not everyone had acknowledged this fact of his superiority. There were others, everywhere he went, that would claim he was not their master, that he wasn't the true ruler of this world. Those were often the first to go, sinking to their knees and begging for his mercy. His. The King of Heroes, they would then call him in a pitiful act of desperation. Their God, as some would go as far as to say.

But it never made a difference. Their cowardice was merely an insect at the dinner table. An unwanted annoyance.

Still, there were others out there, the ones that refused to back down from him, refused to give into his commands even at the highest degree of danger. Those were the kinds of people that he looked for in this world, those that would fight at the cost of their lives. Such people were the reason for his existence in this ugly, decaying world of humanity, where any moment, someone new and more interesting than the last could pop up unexpectedly and offer him a new form of entertainment. Being able to watch the fear slowly seep into their faces, watching the fire in their eyes burn out, was a pleasure beyond that of simple possessions, for, if he could defeat that kind of being, did it not mean that _he_ was the most powerful person there was?

But, then, there was still that woman. She had always just barely managed to escape his grasp, avoiding the inevitable fate of being his.

She was a king, too, or so she claimed. He had first learned this on the night of a full moon, invited to drink, to find the most worthy of claiming the Holy Grail as their own. It was he, no doubt about it, whom the Grail must belong to, but he felt that he would want to see whatever reason these filthy mongrels had for wanting to claim what was so obviously his own.

She had spoken of stupid ideals, ones that a person would only find in a fairytale or child's book. She spoke of a king that served his people, not the other way around, and how she would give up her own claim to the country in order for it to thrive. Such ideals were pityingly childish, and her dreams were nothing more than a lost cause.

Even so, it was splendid to look upon.

Days would pass since that one, and most of them, he would watch her, swinging her holy sword about, her eyes ablaze with fury and determination. Her eyes were the greenest of emeralds- much like the ones he had held in his palace, long ago- and her hair as lustrous as the gold that he wore. Powerful _and_ beautiful- she was certainly a woman worthy of his attention.

And then there came the final battle of that war. Only minutes before he challenged her, she had been facing one of his temporary allies- an old acquaintance, he had been told. It was brutal, more than likely, for the other man had been determined to send her to her grave. She did, however, come out victorious, her face covered in the blood of her fallen comrade, ready to take the Holy Grail, which she had been expecting to be offered to her readyingly. She hadn't been expecting him to be there already. She cursed at him, screamed that the Grail was hers and that she would kill him for it. Her cry when a sword was driven into her leg, although loud and angry, was like the sound of bells to his ears. Even delusional and crawling around the ground, she was still beautiful, and it only strengthened his resolve to have her as his own.

At first, when he had commanded that she lay down her sword to be his queen, her expression had been that of shock, pure surprise at the question. But then, after a few moments, it had turned to disgust at the audacity that came with his next few words. Perhaps telling her to abandon the Grail, and therefore her entire dream altogether, wasn't the wisest of ideas.

"Foolishness," she had called his idea. He was trying to steal it from her!

But, no. No, that was fine. That denial, all of that anger and defiance... That was exactly what he had expected, anticipated, even. After all, what was the fun in courting a woman that would come to you so willingly, when there could be some chase in the mix? So long as she was his- and she most certainly _would_ be his in the end- then it mattered not. She could give him the wrong answer for as many times as she pleased. If she must learn a little pain first, before the joy of serving him, then that would be it.

He hadn't noticed that her master had entered the room until it was much too late to do anything. By then, the man had already used up his last two command seals, ordering the same thing over and over again: Destroy the Holy Grail. He was enraged, not necessarily at the fact that he was ordering the destruction on such a holy item, but that his wedding ceremony had been disturbed and that, if the grail was to be gone, then both he and that woman would disappear.

How dare that man steal what was so rightfully his?

The look of terror in her eyes, unmatched by any other that he had seen, the arced stroke of her sword, and then a burning flash of light. The next thing he knew, he was being engulfed in the firey blood of the Grail, more powerful and god-like than any flood he had witnessed before. Almost instantly, it had spat him out into a world of rubble and chaos, fire around every corner and a sky as dim and gray as death itself.

He found his master hidden under a crumbled building. Although he was not breathing, and his heart had stopped, he knew that the priest was still alive, judging by the mana that still wafted around his body. It could have proved to be troublesome, but he decided to keep the man alive for now, since he was unaware as to what would happen to himself, if his master did, indeed, die. Besides, he was an interesting man, with seemingly different sets of ideals and beliefs every time they met. This characteristic fascinated him, he would admit, and he wished to see how things would play out even farther.

His woman was gone now; he could no long sense her presence, but he knew that she would return, when the Grail War restarted ten years later. He could wait. And he did, for those long, grueling ten years, filled with thoughts of her, that woman, the King of Knights, his queen. He would think of how she would struggle, so frantically, as he held her, how he would make sickly sweet love to her, ever so passionately, against her own will, and how, after breaking her desperately beyond repair, she would beg him, "Please, Gilgamesh, please, accept me as your wife!"

And those would be the most beautiful words that he would ever hear.

And, when the Holy Grail war began anew once again, ten years later, he had found her almost immediately, as expected. Her master was a young boy, but he hardly paid attention to that, as it was merely a minor detail. And, although he did find her, he didn't say a word, never made his presence known. He knew that she would defy him and ruin his plans; it would make things much easier and dramatic, had he awaited until the grand finale, their final battle for the Grail, to make his point of return into her life.

But there was a complication, in the end. That witch, threatening an entire city and using _his_ woman's master as means to make her a _slave_? The audacity! She knew not her place! Such impudence was not to be forgiven. That woman was _his_, and no one else's. What right did she think she had, trying to take _his_ possession and make it her _own_? It was petty thievery. And anyone that touched the king's treasures had a price that they must pay.

Upon seeing his face, his woman had seemed displeased, to say the least. Her face, cold and delicate, had formed into a snarl at the sight of him and he had sent back his own mocking smile in return. So, it had appeared that she still wasn't quite ready to say yes to him, to give herself up to him as he had to fervently desired for all of those years. What a foolish woman she was, making a man wait for as long as he had!

But she seemed to be frozen in place, her teeth ground together, her golden eyebrows etched into a "V" formation as she tried to fathom how he, her enemy and future husband, stood there before her. It was becoming rather boring, watching her stand there for so long, and their building was crumbling so, with the announcement that he would come back to reclaim her, he had left.

And he had, indeed, found her the next night, coming to fetch her, as promised. But there she was, walking down the streets, hand-in-hand with that _child_ she called a master. That mongrel- no- that _brat_ should know better than to touch what wasn't his like that! His woman stood there, staring wide-eyed at him, but then turned to the boy and whispered something quietly to him, but the boy paid no mind, pushing her back behind him and foolishly charging towards him. It was all too easy to send a spear through his chest, but hard to resist the urge to kill the impudent child. Killing him would, after all, mean that the task of keeping his precious woman alive would become only that much more difficult.

She attacked him then, ever so fervently, with those tiny green fires of eyes focused and filled with anger. So beautiful, so mesmerizing to look at, that he couldn't tear his eyes from hers as she whacked and chipped at the blades he used to block hers. A ruthless, angry lioness. He expected nothing less from the woman he had chosen to be his. Soon, however, she fell to her knees, supported only by her sword, stuck in the ground, as a scythe from his Gate of Babylon slid through her arm and pierced the collar of her neck. The red on the blade was such an awfully lovely color; he'd be sure to store it somewhere safe later. But, for the moment, he would be satisfied with watching her face, so obviously pained and lovely in the golden light of his Gate.

She stood again, shaking on her feet, and raised her sword once more, much to his surprise. Even so, it wasn't as if he would turn down such a delicious challenge from the object of his affections. Certainly, he would give her a battle worthwhile. Their swords' energies clashed against one another, her Holy Sword Excalibur and his Weapon of Legends, Ea. The differences in power, it seemed, were overwhelming, as the red energy of his weapon soon overtook hers, and she was sent skidding back through meters of concrete before coming to a halt, the entire right side of her caked in blood. Her hair dipped down into it, soaking the golden locks with red, and her eyes, such a lovely emerald color, had become glazed over, with nearly all life gone from them.

No- she wasn't quite near death, not yet. That wasn't a draining of life in her eyes; it was humility and defeat.

He couldn't help it. First, it was one laugh that escaped his mouth. And then another. And another and another and even more and more until there was a whole string of uncontrolled laughter spewing from his mouth in violent waves. He had defeated her so simply! Just like that! All that time, and he could of had her all to himself, so very easily! Hell, that took about as much effort as drinking a glass of wine!

Maybe he had simply overestimated that woman, thought of her much too highly than he should have. He was, after all, dealing with a child and a woman! He should have known better; a woman in possession of the most powerful sword known to mankind? Surely, he must have been delusional to believe that such a thing could be true!

He couldn't help but laugh even harder as he watched her, reaching out a trembling hand to the boy she contracted with as servant; it proved to be much too difficult a task for her, as she let it drop to her side, uselessly. He tried to restrain the last of it, however, when the boy struggled to his feet, a very familiar sword adorned with blue and gold at the hilt materializing in his hands. The sword from the stone, he recalled. The boy must have been imaging. What a boring technique. The originals always out-classed these cheap fakes, as he soon, effortlessly, proved to the idiotic child with a slash to the chest that sent him flying back.

His woman tried to get to her knees and crawl, begging him to leave the pitiful child alone. "I'm the one you want, aren't I?" He had felt victorious, then, for surely he had finally won her over! But no. The child demanded she didn't do such a thing, that he wanted her for himself and wouldn't allow him to take her.

Finally, the King of Heroes had made up his mind.

He didn't care if the child's death would make keeping his precious King of Knights alive difficult. His foolish affections for his belonging could not be forgiven; she was much too precious of a treasure to be taken. He would simply not allow it! He drew Ea, and struck in a downward arc.

A golden gleam of light in the space between their hands, and all that red energy came rebounding back at him in a forceful wave. It wasn't enough to injure him, but it did have him on guard. Perhaps this wasn't the best time to try and reclaim his woman. With one final look of disgust at the boy that stolen his treasure, he left.

Soon, there would be only the two of them left in this war again, and he would more than glad to wait for the Grail, to have her drink its curse of eternity with him. The priest had kidnapped a child, a little girl with hair as white as snow and eyes as red as blood, so very similar in appearance to the woman his King of Knights had traveled with, all those ten years ago.

And then, that night where preparations for the Grail were finally complete, she had arrived at the temple gates, and O! How her eyes did shine! This time, the boy had decided to leave her, and, finally, her was alone with her! He'd been longing for this moment for much too long to be simply happy; he was absolutely elated that at this one, deciding battle where she would finally become his own, the two of them would be alone, together at last!

What did he _want_? Why, Saber should have known the answer to that question by now. It was her. It was _always_ her. Nothing _but_ her.

He didn't care about this Grail War, and he couldn't care less about whatever it was that the priest had in store for this world. Not anymore. All that mattered now was _her_, and how they would bathe together in the curse of the Grail that night, finally becoming one, as King and Queen.

Twice, she had disarmed him. Twice, had he not been him, he would have surely been a dead man by then. But his Gate of Babylon gave him an infinite amount of blades and weapons, all of which he chose with much care, considering how nice it would look while sinking into her flesh and drawing blood.

Obviously, she had returned to him with no plan at all, no hopes of winning against him. Surely, if she had sacrificed the child and run for the Grail, she would have claimed it for herself, but she had chosen to battle him instead. Without a doubt, this must have been a sign that he had grown on her, and that she admired his strength; she was simply too embarrassed to admit it to him. Such a strong pride she had! He would make certain, he thought as he drew Ea from his Gate of Babylon, that he wouldn't disappoint her by not fighting at his full strength.

Not long after, she had fallen, face first, into the dirt. Her limbs trembled desperately, and he was convinced that he had defeated her once again; such an easy match. He kneeled down to the ground and pulled her head up by her bangs, pleased to see that same fighting spirit of hers, ever so resilient in its nature. She was still feeling well enough to mock him, as well, claiming him a demented man from being engulfed by the Grail's blood. Such a small smile of hers, the first one that he had ever seen, just barely touched her lips. Her first time smiling at him, and it had been condescending.

He let her head drop back to the ground and walked around her still body before catching an opportunity at her foot, sweeping her upwards, into the air with a single motion of the arm. It would have been a much more pleasing sight to behold, had her legs not been covered in an armor which held her dress in place. Still, her face, humiliated and enraged, was quite something to look at as she struggled to tuck her chin in enough to look him in the eyes. Again, he was driven by her strange sort of pitiful beauty to ask for her hand in marriage. Again, he received no answer but even more struggles to escape his grasp. She was much unused to being handled this roughly, he was sure. She would have accepted him with open arms by then, if not.

"I am a king before I am a woman," she had told him, so confidently, so sternly. Was that really arguement she was going to resort to? How pitiful that she, the famous King Arthur, who had been destroyed by her own people, would resort to such demeaning talk!

The cold, hard metal of her silver boots were flung into his face, and he was forced to let go of her foot, stumbling back a few steps. For a woman, she had quite a bit of strength. How admirable; he actually found it quite endearing. The act, however, would not go undisciplined; to harm the King's face was an act that required punishment of the highest caliber.

He drew Ea again, ready to strike while she held Excalibur, strong and proud, in a position to defend herself from the blow. How arrogant! Did she really believe that she would be able to block this attack?! He struck once more, this time much harder than the last, and watched with giddy anticipation for her to cry out in pain once more, for the blood to seep from her body and spill to the ground. It never happened.

Instead, the red energy of Enuma Elish seemed to be caught onto her Holy Sword; her arms shook, seemingly try to contain the blow, but then she made a sharp turn, her blade casting an angle in his direction, and all of that red, bloody energy came back to him. Before he could even fully comprehend what had happened- such a cheap, lowly attack!- she was in front of him, her sword gleaming silver, and it was brought down in a terribly powerful stroke across his breast.

He realized too late what had happened. In his frenzied, chaotic mind, he had forgotten the one other Nobel Phantasm that the King of Knights was said to possess, but that he had never thought the possibility of.

_Avalon_.

The scabbard of the Holy Sword, which she held with such pride. Said to defend and heal, to be able to render any attack, such as his Enuma Elish, helpless. He hadn't taken this into account, merely brushed it off, assuming that the legendary scabbard was just that- a legend- since she had yet to reveal such a precious, powerful item to him. How foolish of him, underestimating her like that. She was the legendary King of Knights, Arturia, after all.

He could not help, as the blood poured forth from his mouth, but stare at her, in all her splendor, face awash with beautiful, pale moonlight. He reached his gloved hand out, desperate to touch her, at least, this one time.

_Avalon_.

Not only a holy item of healing, but a heaven of sorts, untouched by any magics, yet seemingly indescribable as anything _but_ magical. A place of infinite beauty, of quiet, and of peace. No disturbances but that of all those deemed worthy of such a place.

It was a sublime feeling, the only time he had been able touch her so tenderly. She was just so lovely, standing in this moon, as full as the one that stood over them when he first learned of her ideals. Beautiful enough to kiss, almost. Her face wasn't as soft and delicate as he had expected, but sturdy, cold to the touch. For the first time, he saw her face clear of the hate and anger that usually took over it when setting eyes on him. It was calm now, focused and serious. He could feel the sharp curve of her cheek bone, could see the slope of her small nose, could touch the corner of her eyes- such tiny, precious jewels- with his thumb, all as her golden hair was strung about by the wind, just barely brushing the tips of his fingers.

The picture of beauty. His own Avalon, in a way, and something that he would never be able to hold any closer than this, for she would defy him until the very bitter end. He supposed that there were simply some things in this world that you could never have. And maybe, just maybe, that's what made them so beautiful.

He would have liked to say that he would see her in Avalon, if such a place truly did exist.

_But-_

He let his hand drop from her beautiful, pale face, and fall to his side as his body began to be swept away with a current of golden dust.

_Avalon was a place of peace and tranquility._

_And the legendary King of Heroes, Gilgamesh, was, simply put, a perfect being of war._


End file.
